


the ghosts of who we were

by aslanjades



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Career Ending Injuries, College, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Ash, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pole Vaulter Eiji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslanjades/pseuds/aslanjades
Summary: Eiji Okumura is an esteemed collegiate pole vaulter . . . was one, actually. After a sudden, devastating injury, he has no idea whether he‘ll ever be able to vault again, and his athletic scholarship hangs in the balance at the worst possible time because of it. His ghosts—the ones at the back of his mind—taunt him, and he can feel the light within him slowly being smothered out and replaced with an all-consuming blackness.Ash is a ghost who, after dying on the streets of Manhattan, began latching himself to humans and frightening them as much as they deserved; an act otherwise known as haunting. When he first hears of Eiji, he expects anything but what he’s faced with, but as Eiji’s situation unfolds before him, he makes it his mission to get the former athlete back on his feet.That is, if Eiji’s personal ghosts don’t make it impossible before he gets the chance.





	1. 1.

ASH NEVER EXACTLY BELIEVED IN AN AFTERLIFE.

Like any other, he didn’t know what came after, and none of the speculations were plausible. Heaven was ruled out, as if there was a God, he would have a miles-long list of grievances on Judgment Day that would lead to Ash’s entry into the eternal paradise being denied anyway. Even retellings of Hell seemed largely imagined, though if it was real—which he wholeheartedly doubted—it would be the place he belonged for the sins he’d committed when he still walked the earth.

Logically, nothing coming after was reasonable. An empty void filled with the dull hum of silence, rendering anyone who’s fallen victim to the inevitable clutches of death as lonely as they come. One moment there was, and the next there wasn’t.

And more or less, he was right. One moment, he was living with beating heart, thinking with a functioning mind, and the next he was slipping into . . . he couldn’t be sure. Whatever the afterlife was, the early stages were as unclear as his mind when the life was slowly draining out of him.

He never would have expected it to be this.

When he was living, he never feared ghosts because he didn’t believe in them, incorrectly assuming that their existence could be questioned. It wasn’t until people looked right through him as if he wasn’t even there—and not the way they usually brushed past him, uttering an ‘excuse me’ if he was lucky—that he even considered the idea of being some sort of ethereal being. And it wasn’t until a woman who appeared to be fading dressed in clothes that were fashionable decades ago flashed him a chilling smile and curiously told him she hadn’t seen him around in a city where his name was a whisper on every tongue and his face left a lingering imprint on the minds of everyone who’d seen it that something shifted within him.

Eventually, he came to accept it; he was walking among dead men and invisible to the living. He was one of the beings that made up horror films and stories told in the dark by children looking for a scare: an apparition, a spirit, a ghost.

He’d fallen into the middleground between was and wasn’t, life and death, human and corpse. Somehow, he’d stumbled into a new Manhattan, one with streets even more packed with the souls of those who passed and either never left the city that once held them due to some inexplicable tie or came to haunt. 

And despite knowing them so well once, he became a stranger to those streets, but they became acquainted with him quickly. Far before he fully understood the spectral world.

Ash had a reputation when living, so it wasn’t surprising for it to precede him—especially considering the living still spoke of him like he was some legend pulled straight out of fiction books, narrating his life with the details severely twisted to paint him however they liked. Soon enough, his name was on the tongues of phantoms as well, their eyes (or the manifestation of such, considering their actual eyes were probably in a coffin) burning into him whenever they walked past and their voices hushed as they spoke of him.

Within months, he’d been alienated again. He’d become as much of a lonely wanderer as he had been when he was still human, and despite the loneliness being a comfort when he was alive, it was dull when he wasn’t. So he turned to haunting, to following the beckonings that tugged at him and led him to a destination unknown to him until he arrived.

Soon enough, he got a reputation for that, too. 

Most of that reputation was thanks to Shorter Wong, who blew the tales of hauntings Ash would relay to him far out of proportion. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Ash was sure he did it to protect him even though he never asked, nor did he believe that he needed to be protected from anything. Hanging out with a bad crowd of ghosts wouldn’t get him killed, because he’d already been there. So what was the use?

Ash wasn’t sure, but he was still strangely . . . grateful. It was nice to have a companion other than death. 

He walked down the streets—though walking felt more like floating, as if his Converse-clad feet were hardly touching the ground—with hands shoved into his jean pockets and Shorter in tow. For a few blocks, they walked in silence; a silence Shorter clearly found unbearable, as he’d started humming the same part of some pop song that played on the radio all the time before they died over and over.

“So,” he said in an attempt to initiate conversation, taking a break from murmuring the song. Shorter speaking granted Ash relief from that same melody, so he couldn’t complain. “Thinking about getting back into haunting?”

Ash sighed at the question, unable to properly answer. Would he? It had been a while since he haunted someone, and ignoring the beckonings was growing tiresome. As satisfying as a haunt was every now and then, he was afraid that he would grow _too_ fond of it. He’d become the poster boy for terrorization when he was living, and if he were to be honest, he was frightened of becoming the same while he roamed the spectral world—however long that may be.

“Come on,” Shorter nudged upon sensing his hesitance. He jogged forward to jab Ash’s arm with his elbow. “Someone needs to make these guys piss their pants.”

“That was one time, Shorter.” Shorter laughed. Other than a soft, nearly unnoticeable grin, though, Ash remained stern.

“And you know what? I’m sure the guy deserved it,” Shorter casually said, running his fingers through his mohawk. They never spoke much about their past lives since they somewhat knew each other then—at least, they had encountered each other at some point while living by the streets. Ash usually wouldn’t remember those he crossed paths with since he did his best to forget, but he couldn’t possibly forget someone as eccentric as Shorter. Having been acquainted with each other, what they knew was enough. With their lifestyles, they both figured that the other died by a bullet or by a knife, and asking wasn’t polite.

All Ash wanted to ask was what was going through Shorter’s mind when he dyed his hair purple. Not a subtle purple that wouldn’t stand out too much against the natural black, either. Rather a bright, unmistakable purple. The vibrant purple of violets.

And somehow, it fit him perfectly.

“Hey, did you hear about that human? Eiji Okumura?” Shorter asked. The question made Ash slow his steps. _Humans_ , they called the living. As if they hadn’t been _humans_ themselves once. 

Ash shook his head. The name wasn’t even slightly familiar.

“They say everyone who’s tried to haunt him has given up after a day or two. No one’s been able to get under his skin.”

“No one?” Ash asked, gently kicking a can on the sidewalk. A gust of wind blew by at the same time, providing any passersby with an explanation for the inanimate object‘s sudden movement.

Hands in his pockets, Shorter shook his head. “Not even the vets. Personally, I say possess him and call it a day. Works like a charm.”

“Most of us don’t want to put ourselves into some stranger’s body.” The memory of Ash trying it for the first time upon Shorter’s recommendation resurfaced, and Ash felt his presence flicker. After exiting the mortal body and subsequently returning ownership to the rightful soul, Ash felt the most unstable he ever had as a phantom. He hadn’t tried it again since. Hadn’t even had the desire to. “It makes me feel sick.”

“ _It makes me feel sick,_ ” Shorter mocked under his breath, earning a light shove from Ash. Ash half-expected him to go on, probably commenting on their lack of bodies and inability to feel sick because of it. Instead, Shorter’s face softened a bit, eyes likely doing the same behind his sunglasses. “For what it’s worth, I think you should give him a try.”

“Me?” 

Ash crossed the street as an oncoming car approached, turning around to face Shorter, who stayed on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street. As the car passed through him and continued, Shorter shivered.

“I don’t know how you do that,” he admitted when he began crossing after checking for oncoming vehicles. “It’s not gonna hit you, sure. But at least look both ways. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that habits don’t die with you.”

Ash weighed the words. His habits _didn’t_ die with him. He was still always on edge, even though there was nothing to fear. And, as much as he hated it, he still lacked remorse for those he terrorized. At least he could bask in the fact that he never pointed a gun at someone who hadn’t irredeemably sinned when was living, and he hadn’t haunted anyone who he didn’t decide had it—or something much worse—coming while dead.

To lighten the mood and bring himself some relief, Ash shoved the thought away and grounded himself by looking around him, then at Shorter.

“You know, Shorter, that’s awfully cowardly for someone who taunts me for not preferring a cop-out way of haunting.”

Shorter dismissively waved his hand, ignoring the jab at his methods. “Anyway, yes, you. You’re known for your hauntings. You’d be in and out in days. Hell, hours, maybe.”

For that, Ash didn’t have a witty response. He walked along the sidewalk with jade eyes on the ground and blonde hair falling into his eyes. 

“You don’t have to push it away, you know.” Shorter’s words made Ash look up, then crane his neck ever-so-slightly to look Shorter in the face. “The beckonings. It’s been weeks since you’ve been on a haunt. What else is there to do here? Wander the same streets you’ve walked up and down a million times? Just . . . take the next one, will you? I know you want to, and frankly, you need to.”

At the time, despite Shorter being right, Ash remained silent and let the conversation shift topics. But the thought of a new haunt granted him a curious sense of excitement, a sense he tried to train himself to not feel. Even as he attempted to repress the feelings, the thought of a haunt so challenging after so long was terrifyingly enticing. 

Still, he used as much willpower as he could summon to push the thought to the back of his mind, far enough that cobwebs would hang around it and dust would collect. After a few days, though, he found himself wanting the beckonings he’d ignored for so long to return and guide him towards something exhilarating. 

When the beckonings did resurface, he followed the first pull without a second thought. 

The tug led him south, past hundreds of ghosts wandering like zombies in search of something fulfilling, and past the buildings that had lost their wonder from the dozens of times he had seen them while alive.

His lifestyle quickly drained the excitement out of New York, seeing as it was hard to enjoy the novelty of the city as soon as he was aware of the inner workings of it. The violence, the corruption—it was all enough to make NYC less of the Big Apple and more of a big cesspool for the amoral and bloodthirsty.

Yet as he drifted through the streets, feet so sure of where they were headed but mind lacking even the slightest idea, he felt a strange sense of nostalgia. A twisted comfort from the roads that welcomed them as his own and took him in even after he helplessly bled until the life completely drained from him. 

He looked down each familiar street expecting to turn down them, but he kept walking along the riverbank. When he grew inquisitive, the beckoning just got more insistent, almost unbearably so. Eventually, Ash felt as if he was being pulled by a string; perhaps the string of fate.

What he didn’t expect was for that string to lead him to the outside of a dorm at the New York University. His steps grew more hesitant as he passed through a wall and up flights of stairs, past chattering residents and music softly playing from behind brick walls. 

Finally, he stopped in front of a door. He was lured forward, and upon obeying and walking a couple of steps ahead, the beckoning stopped. As if the string that had guided him all the way there had been cut at once, leaving him with no further explanation.

If the beckoning was as right it always was, this was who he was meant to haunt. 

Ash laid eyes on the boy sitting at the desk with a textbook open in front of him and his chin in his hand. His eyes wandered the page, but they clearly weren’t reading it. In fact, he looked disinterested. Stressed.

Like a normal college student.

“No,” Ash murmured to himself. He couldn’t have possibly come all this way to haunt an everyday human. He was done with amateur jobs ever since he found no pleasure in them when he tried only a couple months after his death. What was the point? What did they do to deserve it? A year later, it was ridiculous—no, it was _insulting_ to be assigned to some poor university student. 

He could already hear Shorter laughing at him about it. His reputation, the one he didn’t ask for and hardly even wanted, was going down the drain with every passing second.

At least, Ash thought, he could find out _who_ exactly he’d been called to haunt. He walked forward and stopped before the boy, analyzing the work in front of him. Calculus, he recognized the problems on the page as. However, none of the papers had a name on them and nor did the open laptop, meaning he would have to find another way of identifying him.

Curiously, he averted his eyes to the student. Dark hair and dark eyes. Alongside the far end of the desk, a pair of crutches rested against the light wood. When Ash stepped back and glanced underneath the desk to confirm what the crutches insinuated, he saw the boy’s ankle encased in a boot.

Oh, dear. Not only was he haunting an average college student, but he was haunting an average, _injured_ college student. Surely, the boy was being intimidated enough by the clunky thing that rose up to his shin.

Slightly jutting out his lip, stumped, Ash moved over to the shelf along the wall. His eyes scanned over photos of the boy dressed in an athletic uniform with a triumphant smile—so very different from the person who sat at the desk with clouded over eyes—until he noticed a framed and folded acceptance letter on a lower shelf. Ash bent down to get a closer look, narrowing his eyes to read the small front. _Dear Eiji_ , it read. After seeing the name, Ash froze.

It couldn’t be. 

Slowly, his eyes moved down to the lowest and widest shelf, where multiple trophies rested. Engraved in the gold plaque of one of them was the same name Shorter spoke to him mere days ago: Eiji Okumura.

Ash turned around, looking at the boy again.

This was the human who was so notorious in the ghost world? The supposedly fearless? A college student who had his head in his hands to shield his eyes from his textbook as if he couldn’t take reading another word?

Ash furrowed his brows in confusion. This couldn’t be right. How the hell did the other esteemed ghosts try to scare him? By yelling _boo_ and hoping for the best? How had _he_ worked his way up the scare list?

Suddenly, the haunt wasn’t seeming so amateur; Ash was already the most stumped he had ever been, and he hadn’t even been there for ten minutes.

He did ask for a challenge, after all, and a challenge was what he got. Eiji Okumura was clearly certainly an enigma, and at that moment, Ash vowed to be more successful than his predecessors in figuring him out.


	2. 2

DECIPHERING THE NOTORIOUS HUMAN IMMEDIATELY PROVED TO BE MUCH MORE DIFFICULT THAN ASH ANTICIPATED.

For one, he wouldn’t nap, nor would he leave the dorm. After trying (and failing) to study, he climbed onto the mattress covered in a seemingly infinite supply of blankets and stayed there, but sleeping seemed to be out of the picture; likely because he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. His ankle boot was atop a pillow punched a concerning number of times to cradle it the perfect way, but he still sat up every half hour or so and reached down to clutch the boot with a wince or shifted the pillow to the side a bit.

All Ash could do was watch, since his options were very, very limited with Eiji awake and alert.

It wasn’t necessarily late, yet the curtains pulled over the window and the silence in the room made it seem like it was the dead of the night. The clock read seven, a rather early hour, but Eiji laid in bed with an arm over his eyes as if to block out the light that wasn’t there, presumably trying to rest.

It wasn’t until his phone lit up that he removed his arm, peeked at the device, and sat up. Too curious to resist, Ash walked forward and peered at the screen.

The name of the group chat made it more than clear that it was for the track and field team, which led Ash to glance at Eiji to gauge him for a reaction. His eyes were unreadable, and they robotically moved back and forth as he read the message sent— _We were planning to head out tomorrow night. You joining us, Eiji?_ —repeatedly. Like it wouldn’t register each time and he had to try and try until it clicked.

Finally, he looked at the desk across the room, then back at the screen before typing a simple response. _Can’t. Doctor’s appointment. Sorry._

With that, he clicked the button on the side of his phone to send it into slumber.

Following Eiji’s fleeting gaze, Ash headed over to the desk, which was relatively . . . neat. A few cards and pamphlets were propped up and tossed about along with some stray schools supplies, but it didn’t exactly look messy. His laptop was still open although it had gone dark from inactivity. The textbook that had been slammed shut laid atop a calendar with competition dates written in cursive and crossed out in large, red x’s. 

Throughout the month, half of which Ash couldn’t see the dates of without shifting the calculus book, doctor’s appointments were scattered. Despite the excuse Eiji had given for not being able to go out, tomorrow had none scheduled. At least, one wasn’t written down.

Ash turned to Eiji, who had returned to what seemed to be his neutral position, and let out a inquiring hum.

Clearly, he was an athlete. The exact sport was still a mystery, as none of the photos on his shelf gave it away and track and field was a broad category. Whatever it was, Ash presumed that it was the reason for the injury Eiji had sustained. 

But how did it all add up to him being unable to be frightened by any ghost—not even the most experienced? Why did he need to be haunted? What would he lose from it? It looked as though he had already lost enough.

A knock at the door caught both Ash’s and Eiji’s attention, but neither of them moved. In the moments of silence after the knock sound, Eiji softly muttered, “Please go away. Please go away. Please go away—”

The knock only returned, and louder. With no other choice, Eiji reached for the crutches leaning against the mattress and sat up, swinging his legs onto the floor. He stood on his uninjured leg, tucked each crutch beneath an arm, and made his way to the door. 

It was the first time Ash saw him actually use the crutches. Granted, he’d only moved from the desk to the bed in the time Ash had been there. But he used the office chair to go from one section of the room to another and dragged the crutches along with him. The sight was perplexing, and so was the thought of Eiji doing everything in his power not to use the objects given to him to make the task of walking less complicated.

Eiji opened the door with a sigh, and Ash shifted to see who he was facing. 

A boy with pitch-colored hair styled in a long, neat braid stood there with a hand on his hip. Violet eyes looked nonchalant behind round glasses, and the way his foot tapped against the ground made him seem even more irritated. He held out multiple sheets of notebook paper, only looking Eiji in the eyes when the athlete reached out and grabbed them.

“You copied them twice?” Eiji asked, doe eyes inquisitive.

“No, I didn’t.” And in a single moment, the visitor softened completely, lowering his chin from it’s raised position and slumping his shoulders a bit. Somehow, he seemed so much more modest just by changing his stance. “I recorded the lectures—both of them—but I knew you wouldn’t listen to either. I advise you to at least look the notes over.”

“Thank you, Yue.”

Seemingly ignoring the words of gratitude, the visitor continued, “Listen. I know you’re . . . not in the ideal situation. But you’ve missed two days in the class you can afford to miss the least, and as much as I adore taking notes and bringing them to you—really, it’s brought me so much joy—there’s no way in hell I’m taking that test for you. The schedule hasn’t changed, so it’s in a couple of days. Be there.”

“Okay.” When Yue only looked back at him with raised eyebrows, Eiji assured, “I will be there, Yut Lung.”

“Good. By the way, one of your teammates told me to tell you to let them know when you’re available. They miss their star, Eiji. And deep down, however deep down that may be, I know you miss them too. Don’t push away the people who want to be there for you most.”

“Okay,” The response was dismissive, though Eiji clearly tried not to come off as such. The back and forth resembled a talk between a parent and a child on the phone so much that, for Ash, it was almost laughable.

“Alright, alright. I’m going now.” Yue turned and began to walk away, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag so it sat on his shoulder more comfortably. He stopped after only a few steps and glanced over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself. Text me if you need anything. I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he continued down the hall of the suite and turned at the end, putting him out of view. Eiji stood and stared at the ground for a few moments, likely thinking about what his friend had said. Really, it was almost like he had just gotten a necessary gentle scolding and he was letting the shame sink in before shutting the door.

Once again alone in darkness, Eiji crutched himself over to his desk and switched on the table lamp. Opening the cover of the textbook, he tucked the notes inside and kept a hand atop them as though contemplating studying like he was instructed. Yet rather than studying, he returned to bed, the bulb in the lamp still slightly brightening the room. 

Rather than studying, the human finally slept. Ash, who had gotten so bored that he almost fell asleep himself despite lacking the need to, nearly rejoiced at the sight.

As soon as Eiji had been asleep long enough for Ash to be sure that he was actually sleeping, the phantom sat in the office chair and stared at the laptop, then tapped the space bar as gently as he to wake it up. Luckily, he had seen Eiji type in the password and was able to commit it to memory, so when the screen prompted him to insert it before he continued, he typed in the letters and numbers without any issue.

There. The most difficult part of the process aside from not getting caught was complete.

After loading, the screen went back to the page Ash saw when he first walked in: some sort of tutoring site. He clicked a new tab, turned over his shoulder for a moment, and typed the name of the boy he had so many questions about into the search bar.

The engine brought back a page of links. Ash clicked the first one, a profile on the site for NYU’s athletic department.

Once again, Ash was met by an unfamiliar yet recognizable face. It was the same, with those unmistakable doe eyes, yet the Eiji on the website was . . . warmer. He smiled, which Ash had yet to see him do. He appeared the same way he did in the photos on his shelf—confident and content. 

From what he had seen in the day he’d been latched onto him, Ash didn’t think either of the qualities remained. Not the way they used to.

Ash scrolled down to the information section. A pole-vaulter, the site clarified. A sport Ash recognized, but didn’t know the technicalities of. But even with the limited knowledge he had, it did seem more than dangerous enough to give Eiji the injury he bore.

His height was listed as five foot six inches, which Ash nearly snickered at. Someone the size of a teenager had made a wave in another world, had intimidated those who stared death in the face. It was . . . impressive. Had Ash been able to speak to him and be understood as more than an inexplicable passing thought, he would have commended him.

The rest of the information on the page was in significant to the case—he was a sophomore majoring in childhood education, with his hometown being a city in Japan that was, according to Google, known for a particular Shinto shrine. 

Ash went back to the list of search results and muted the volume before clicking the first video link, footage from a previous competition. As the video began to play, Ash noted the violet and white uniform, the undeniably perfect posture Eiji had, and that smile, yet again, on his face. What happened to it? Was it the injury that smothered the light from within him?

The Eiji in the video stretched his shoulders back, hands gripping the pole that would propel him over the bar that seemed to be set at an untouchable height. The stunning thing was that there was no trace of fear or doubt written anywhere on his face or inscribed in his body language. He looked as sure as a bird was of flying that he would soar over the bar and clear the height. 

And after a few moments of standing still and a deep breath taken, he sprinted forward, dug the end of the pole in what seemed to be a pit of sorts, and let it drive him up and up until he was close enough to the bar to twist and let go. Then, as quickly as the vault happened, he was falling into the pit, sitting up with a tight lipped grin, and the video was concluding. A prompt for Ash to replay the clip appeared on the screen.

Rather than replaying, Ash clicked back to the search results yet again. He hovered the cursor over the second video, one with the unarguably enticing title _POLE VAULTER EIJI OKUMURA’S INJURY_ , followed by a date that was a mere two weeks ago. Following a moment of hesitance, Ash clicked the video.

It was the same scene as the last video featuring the same face, and the same self-assured posture. Nothing seemed to be off, and clearly, Ash wasn’t the only one who thought that. At the top of the frame, the crowd could be seen clapping and cupping their hands around their mouths to amplify their cheers. They _loved_ him. Eiji held onto the pole and tapped the toe of his shoe against the ground once, then twice, then did the same on the other foot. At last, he raised his head and stared down the height.

The only thing that was even slightly off was the fact that he wasn’t smiling. 

As he began to run, Ash analyzed his steps. They were just as sure as before, and his speed wasn’t glaringly different. Again, he dug his pole into the box and held on as he was elevated into the air, into heights most humans couldn’t and wouldn’t go to. 

But he let go of the pole a second too early, early enough to not clear the height or even make it to the other side of the bar. Early enough that it seemed like he wasn’t fully there mentally, because the fault was alarming. This time, he fell gracelessly, like an angel slipping from the gates of heaven. His lips were parted and his eyes were wider than usual to compose the unmistakable look of fear, of chilling uncertainty. Ash could instinctively hear the thumping sound his heart would have made if he was living; he couldn’t even imagine what went through Eiji’s head.

The edge of the mat thankfully caught the athlete’s torso as he leaned back at the last moment. One leg was positioned in the air, which ultimately saved it from injury. But the other was coming down and onto the metal covering of the box at a frightening speed, one that made Ash cringe.

For some reason, Ash turned away before the impact. He had seen the worst sights imaginable, but witnessing what appeared to be Eiji’s  
most vulnerable moment felt strangely . . . violative. After silently observing him and looking through some of his things, _this_ is was Ash drew the line.

When he faced the screen again, the camera was still rolling. Eiji’s expression was that of utter pain—eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched. Both hands clutched his ankle, and just as two figures ran into the frame, the video cut. 

As Ash speechlessly stared at the screen, a truth settled in. He was in way over his head. His job was to haunt Eiji, so why should he have cared about his injury or any other circumstances? In any other case, he would have done his usual research, found that the assignee was in for the fright of a lifetime, and begun haunting as usual.

But this was already turning out to be so different.

Ash closed out of the tab and leaned back, letting out a sigh. What was he doing? What had he gotten himself into? What did the beckoning leading him here mean?

Ash stood and faced the sleeping boy, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re already proving to be a hell of a case, you know that?”

He only got slow, steady breathing in response.


End file.
